In a Time of Grey
by NotMarge
Summary: There once was a young woman named Magda. Who knew a man who could control metal.


I do not own X-Men.

In a Time of Grey

* * *

Maximoff.

That had never been her surname. But it had been the last thing she had said to him in German on that grey, fateful morning as she had walked out the door to go to the market in hopes of buying bread. And when she had returned and he had disappeared, she'd been left with a gift. A pair of them. And when she had finally made it to America and they'd asked her for her name, that phrase had popped into her head. So she had become.

Magda Maximoff.

* * *

She didn't count the days they were together. She didn't count the times.

She only knew he materialized out of the darkness, out of the gloom.

And saved her from the men trying to rob her, rape her. On her very doorstep.

He never touched them until the deed was done. Until the solid, unbending metal rebars of the security fence ripped itself off its moorings and pulled them off her flailing body, wrapping them upside down in strangleholds as their faces purpled and they died with their tongues hanging out and their leering eyes bulging.

He killed them without so much as raising a finger, batting an eye.

When it was over, she stood, smoothing down her shapeless shift and shakily spoke her first words to him.

"You did that. You killed those men. With metal."

He stood perfectly still, his tall, thin frame melding with the shadows as though he were only a figment of her imagination.

"I did nothing."

And then she passed out.

* * *

When she came to, she was laying on her bed in her dingy, small, two room apartment. A thin blanket covered her. She was still in her clothes, even her shoes.

A single lamp flickered dimly on the bedside table.

He sat in a chair across from her, head turned, gazing out the single window.

She observed him through half closed lids.

In profile, she saw him. An ageless face. Free of lines and wrinkles. Handsome. Strong bone structure. His jawline, almost predatorial. Dark hair brushed back from his pale, grim countenance. One hand up, fingers brushing against the curve of his mouth, thumb under his chin.

She cleared her throat. He turned calmly to look at her as she sat up slowly.

"Dizzy?"

The simple word was precisely constructed and spoken low.

She shook her head, standing carefully. Attempted to tuck her straw-colored hair back into the fallen bun.

"No. I am fine."

He nodded solemnly. Then rising, moved toward the only door.

"You should be more careful in the future, Fraulein. Farewell."

She glanced outside. The bodies were gone. As if they had never been.

As his hand touched the doorknob, she spoke without knowing that she would.

"Are you hungry? I have potatoes. It isn't much but it's something."

He stopped, seeming to weigh the consequences.

He looked at her and she saw his eyes were ancient, bottomless pools.

And she knew.

The camps.

A soldier? A prisoner?

Of course, it didn't really matter anymore. It was over. Stopped by the powerful men in who dared to stand against the deadly vision of Adolf Hitler.

And she, she and those around her, were left to survive in the rubble of its wake.

"Please allow me to thank you with a meal," she requested quietly.

He stood still and silent as a statue for an eternal moment of time and then nodded slightly. He seemed wary to stay. Finally, releasing the door handle, he moved to sit in a spindly chair at her tiny eating table.

She brought out the potatoes and quartered them carefully. She cooked them in a pot of water and softened onions to add to the potatoes. Taking generous pinches of salt and pepper from her coveted stash, she seasoned the food for the special meal.

He remained silent throughout the preparations. She did not know if he watched her or not. She did not look to see.

As she ladled their meager meal into bowls, she realized she did not know his name.

She wasn't certain she wanted to.

Placing the bowls on the table, she sat across from him. He reached for the bent spoon, took a bite, and chewed slowly.

She waited.

He nodded his appreciation, seeming to force himself to look into her eyes as he did so.

She wished she could remember how to smile. She would smile for him. Whether he noticed or not.

They took their sustenance in silence.

He ate in a way that suggested he both relished the simple food and, at the same time, found no importance in the partaking other than to provide energy to his body.

When the bowls were empty and their mouths wiped with spare cloths, she rose and rinsed the bowls in the sink.

He reminded quiet at the table.

The task completed, she turned and looked at him.

"What is your name?"

He did not answer immediately, only looked at her. His face and the thoughts behind it, closed to her. She waited. Finally, he spoke.

"Max."

She nodded. Something within whispered that wasn't really his name. And another something said it didn't matter.

"I am Magda."

* * *

She did not intend to invite him into her bed. But she did. And he accepted.

And then he stayed.

They breathed. They ate. They talked. They communicated without words.

He was a very withdrawn man. He did not laugh and rarely smiled.

Only when intertwined in the final moments of coupling did he seemed to allow himself to experience emotion. Burying his face in her neck and groaning deep in his throat.

When he slept, he lay as though dead. Unadorned beneath the sheets beside her, his breathing even and deep.

Except when he did not.

She knew that he had nightmares, moaned and mumbled in his sleep. And she knew the reason. The tattoo on his left forearm. Everything about him was attached to it. Everything she needed to know to understand him was there, permanently inked onto his flesh.

214782.

He would not speak of it. And she did not ask.

None of it mattered anymore. Nothing before the rise of the Reich. Not the war itself. Not the desolation and poverty following it.

It was all done, ashes and dust.

So they let the past lie buried and undisturbed.

Or so she thought.

* * *

On the morning of what was to be their last day, she awoke abruptly with his hands around her neck, strangling the life from her. His eyes had been far away and dead. She gasped and wheezed. Clutched at his hands around her neck, desperate to live. Drawing an aching gasp, she screamed loudly. Too loudly. The tenants next door banged on the wall, yelling curses in German.

Her scream drove through his haze and his eyes cleared, focusing in on her terrified face.

He looked at her, suddenly awake and alert. It was one of the only emotional moments she ever witnessed from him.

He released his grip on her completely and rose from the bed. Horror painted his face as he backed away. She wrapped in the sheet around her exposed form, gasping for air.

His bright, blue eyes never left her face.

And the sorrow within him ran so very deep.

* * *

After recovering herself, she prepared to go out to the market, hopeful of buying bread and butter for their breakfast. He sat in the chair, staring out the window.

"Max, I'm off."

He did not reply.

She closed the door quietly behind her.

* * *

When she returned, the small space was empty.

She assumed he had stepped out and would return. But that thing inside her whispered that he was gone.

She moved toward the bed to smooth the rumpled bed sheets that still smelled of them together.

She stubbed her toe on something hard.

Kneeling down, she saw a bag she had not noticed before. Opening it, her eyes fell on a square of paper atop a black cloth.

_Magda,_

_I am sorry. I never meant to hurt you._

_Max_

Underneath the black cloth were stacks and stacks of small gold bars.

* * *

Pregnant.

Magda was pregnant.

Would she carry the child, birth it, and raise it here in this grey existence?

He, the metal man Max, had left her a small fortune that she hidden, fearful and unsure of what she should do with it.

She retrieved them now, those gleaming golden bars. For she had finally decided what she would do. For the unborn in her belly.

* * *

"Name?"

She froze in the grip of the sudden question.

It was repeated.

"Name?"

She could not do this. She could not venture into a foreign land such as this. Especially one that thought her accent evidenced her as a threat.

"Ma'am, I must have your name."

She opened her mouth and closed it.

"Max, I'm off."

She turned, startled, to the words and saw a short, plump woman quickly kiss her short, blond husband, smiling.

It was akin to what she herself had said to him as she had left on that last day. In German. It sounded different in English, of course.

"Ma'am?"

She turned back to the now irritated man before her.

"Your name?"

"Maximoff," she said, careful of her accent. "Madga Maximoff."

He wrote it down.

* * *

She set about the process of melding into American society. Procured a house. And gainful, respectable employment.

Her husband had died of a heart attack. That was the story she stuck to. Fabricated because American women apparently did not approve of flighty romances resulting in children born out of wedlock.

And the children were born.

Twins. A boy and a girl.

And they grew.

And had powers.

And she did her best to keep them safe. To love them. To raise them. To fit in. To not worry about the future.

And she found that she could be happy. Content. Satisfied.

* * *

But she had never expected to see him again, understanding that a man such as he would not reveal his presence to anyone without absolute intention.

But now after seventeen long years, he was here.

Returned.

On the TV.

Talking to his son.

He looked much older now, much more careworn. As did she. The quiet man was still there. Though now he was powered by rage, by purpose, by hate.

And she, she was in a state of quietly rising panic.

For her rapid-fire son, who was very still and listening so very intently.

To his father's words.

" . . . out there, I say this: no more hiding."

* * *

**So this is my first foray back into writing after three weeks on sabbatical. And I've never gone for more than three **_**days**_** without writing since last November. You will be kind, won't you?**

**In the comics, Erik was originally named 'Max'. I like Erik better.**

**Anyways, if this seems a little stilted, then it seems like Erik would have been a little stilted around this time as well. **

**Oh, and if you haven't seen the pic for this story, check it out. It's totally perfect!**

**Thanks to brigid1318 for reviewing and encouraging me to write in the first place. :)**

**Thanks to MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul, Rachel Mason, rebecca-in-blue, Aletta-Feather, Auua Ytjoml, and I've Been a Labrat for reviewing.**

**Thanks to ABewilderedBear, Starlit007day, and charlie7694 for adding your support to this lil fic.**

**Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.**


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